


The Lies We Tell Ourselves

by themus



Category: The OC
Genre: Depression, Explicit Language, Future Fic, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Past Character Death, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-15
Updated: 2006-08-15
Packaged: 2019-02-23 06:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13184049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themus/pseuds/themus
Summary: Much inspiration taken from Simon and Garfunkel's 'A Most Peculiar Man'.





	The Lies We Tell Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

> Much inspiration taken from Simon and Garfunkel's 'A Most Peculiar Man'.

_The apartment block buzzes with stolen conversation these days. The inhabitants gather in the lobby by the battered grey mailboxes, or at the head of the stairs on the third floor, leaning against the cold banister, talking in low voices and deliberate words. And when Mrs Riordan ventures out from her room, they gravitate towards her. She is the sun to their orbiting gossip. Wherever there are doubts, Mrs Riordan should know. After all, she lived upstairs from him._

 

I lugged the last of the cardboard boxes through the door to my apartment, tripping for the tenth time over the doorsill. I cursed it silently as I dropped the box on the sofa - the side scrawled with 'Jayne's kitchen stuff' in black marker tipping over onto the cushion - and leaned forward to squeeze my toes tightly. Damn open-toe sandals, I hissed in my head. I didn't have to put money in the swear jar unless I said it out loud, I had decided. So far today that ploy had saved me enough money to buy a pack of cigarettes, and after all this exercise I needed a smoke more than I had for the last few months put together.

My parents wouldn't be pleased that I had taken up that filthy habit again, but personally I considered it a much healthier habit than Darren had been. Darren with his list of ex-girlfriends who just 'didn't understand' him. Darren and his lying, cheating, scumbag self. Well, chalk up one more ex-girlfriend that would never speak to him again. I cussed again in my head, earning another cigarette or two. Chalk up one more ex-girlfriend who'd had to move out of a flat shared with Darren the chauvinist bastard. Hence my unappetising foray into this ratty apartment in a ratty corner of LA.

I sighed, bracing my hands on my hips, and stared around at my new home. The beige flocked wallpaper was peeling in places; the skirting boards needed repainting; the carpet shampooing and the whole place deodourising to get rid of the general smell of stale cat urine. The reason for that particular smell was a mystery, since they didn't allow pets in the place. Not for the first time did I wonder why I hadn't simply packed up my pride with all of my other possessions and moved back in with my parents.

Because, I told myself - starting back out of the door to move my car - twenty-five year old women with successful careers didn't just move back home because of a failed relationship. No matter how good it sounded to go and brood alone in my childhood room, plied occasionally with chocolate cookies and tubs of ice-cream. I had stopped acting like that when I was sixteen. Well, I had stopped running back to my parents' home to act that way.

I pulled the door of my apartment shut behind me, hearing the lock click into place. It was cooler in the windowless hallway of the apartment building, and quiet except for the insistent beat of music coming from the apartment two doors down. I padded down the corridor, my sandals slapping noisily on the brown tiled floor, and as I reach the stairs I made it out to be the typical angry chick music that my roommate at college had insisted on listening to all the time. I swore to myself again, especially for her and the memory of many sleepless nights, and started down the stairs.

I trotted down the steps, running my hand along the banister rail, and at the bottom gripped it to swing around the corner and almost ran into the back of someone. He was stood directly in the narrow doorway out of the apartment building, staring outside. He was pretty short, only just matching my height in my kitten heels, with scruffy dirty-blonde hair.

“Um, excuse me,” I said, when it became apparent that he wasn't going to move of his own accord. He still didn't move or make any acknowledgement of my presence behind him, and I was sorely tempted to poke him in his well-muscled back. But he was complete stranger and I wasn't sure how much I wanted to risk pissing him off on my first day in the building.  

“Excuse me,” I repeated, louder and more irritated than before. “Hello? Earth to guy, I'm trying to get by here.”

Eventually I decided he must be deaf and settled for patting him on the shoulder. He turned, startled, and I was met with dazzling blue eyes below his shaggy hair. I caught a glimpse of some emotion I couldn't identify before he emptied them and stared dully back at me. Despite his diminutive stature he couldn't have been much younger than I was. Maybe twenty-two or twenty-three, although the thick layer of stubble on his jawline could have added years.

I narrowed my eyes at him, tapping a foot impatiently. Obviously he was a bit on the slow side too, and after the week I'd had I wasn't in the mood to hang around explaining the art of moving out of doorways to some random guy. All I wanted to do was go park my car and take a long, long shower, and then veg out in front of the TV with my collection of cheesy romance films and a plate of pasta bake.

“Look guy,” I tried again. “ _I_  need to  _go outside_ ,” I said with much exaggeration, pointing first at myself and then out of the door. “So  _you_  need to  _move out of the way_.” I made another overly dynamic gesture with my hands. Finally he seemed to get the hint and stepped inside of the building. He had a bunch of letters in his hands, and from the red block capitals which were visible at the edge of most of them, I guessed they were all stamped with the words 'Final Notice' as the topmost one was. I glanced at it, quickly scanning the upside-down type on the white label.

Ryan Atwood. 4A.

4A. So he was the one playing the aggressive punk rock.

I considered commenting to that effect but he didn't exactly look conversational, so I flashed him an extremely fake smile and got myself out of the door.

“That your car?”

I spun, searching for the owner of the voice, and figured it must have been him as he was the only person in the vicinity, although there was no sign that he'd said anything at all. His jaw was still clenched tight and he still had blank eyes fixed on me.

“Uh, yeah,” I answered, a little wary of the man now, “that's my car. And I'm going to move it now.” I turned again and walked to my Toyota Jeep, and by the time I'd climbed into the seat and closed the door he had vanished back up the stairs.

Now that, I thought to myself as I gunned the engine, was a very peculiar guy.

 

 

_Mrs Riordan reads the papers weekly. She studies the remarkable and mundane, dissects each simple sentence in the small-print sections, looking for an inkling of the deeper meaning. Sometimes she takes clippings, lays the paper between the pages of a book in a drawer that is emptied and examined often. It is the least she can do, she thinks. And when she leaves her room she is accosted in the lobby, devoured by their questions. They assume knowledge while she assumes guilt._

 

I scrubbed at my hair with the balding towel, attempting to get the edge of the dampness off so that it wouldn't soak straight through my new white halter-neck when I let it drop. A quick glance at the VCR clock told me that my boyfriend would arrive in a little after half an hour. And I was rapidly getting a headache. I rubbed the jet-black ends again and then let it go, the whole length of it tumbling tangled just past my shoulders. I dropped the soaking towel on the floor, grabbed my keys and headed out into the corridor barefoot, leaving my door ajar behind me.

The music was still thumping out of 4A. I smacked the side of my fist into his door.

“Could you shut the hell up in there?” I yelled, trying to be heard over the screaming of the obviously castrated lead singer.

This little ritual had been going on for weeks now. Years actually, since the day I had moved in, but it had just begun to intensify lately. For the most part 4A would be painfully silent, a fact I noted when I walked the corridor every day at six, while all the other apartments were alive with the sounds of pots clanging behind thin walls, and televisions blasting the sports or news bulletins, 4A would be still. I knew he was in there though, because if I ever stopped to listen I could hear him pacing up and down his living room.

But lately, at night, he would turn on this music so loudly that Ms Betterman, the chronically deaf old lady in 4B, would complain to me in the mornings about the roadworks outside her window.

I hit the door again, a series of three hard knocks. “Turn the music down in there, nobody wants to hear it.”

The door jerked open as I raised my fist again, and the volume of the music seemed to redouble without the thin slab of wood in the way. 4A hadn't really changed much since the first time I'd seen him – blue eyes kept dull, blonde hair unkempt, washed-out blue t-shirt and jeans. The apartment stank of stale smoke.

“Can you turn the damn music down, you're giving everyone in the building a headache.” And while I realised that I didn't technically know this for fact, I was sure I wasn't exaggerating.

He blinked at me. “I'm listening to it,” he said, his voice husky and deep as always. I wondered if he'd had some kind of horrible throat disease, or if he just didn't speak often enough.

“Well listen to it quieter; this isn't a rave, no-one else wants to hear it. How the hell old are you anyway, haven't you outgrown all this crap?” I asked. I for one had stopped needing to listen to music that loud since I was twenty-one, and now that I was thirty I appreciated that some music was better heard turned low.

“I'm twenty-eight,” he pointed out, as if it was some important fact that unbalanced his world.

“Great, good for you. I'm tired. And I have a date, and I'd appreciate if I didn't have to listen to this talentless eunuch caterwauling all night as my background music. Okay?” I spun and stormed back to my apartment, and as I shut the door behind me the beat that had taken possession of my brain finally stopped. I breathed a short sigh of relief. Thank God for small mercies, I thought.

I quickly dried and brushed my hair out, opting to pull it up into a ponytail to keep it off of my neck. It was a stifling May night. I switched on the fan I had bought to supplement the dodgy air-con, since I couldn't open the window. As little as I appreciated 4A's music, I appreciated the drunken yelling of the freshly graduated even less, and unfortunately the street would be busy with them tonight, wobbling to and fro from the bars in celebration of an almost meaningless piece of paper.

I grabbed the damp towel off the floor and hung it over the rail in the bathroom, then I came back into the living room and quickly scanned my surroundings, ensuring I hadn't missed anything. The mottled green carpet had been hoovered, the cheap mint throw on the sofa straightened and the brown cushions plumped and set in its corners. The small table, crammed in between the sofa and the door, was set with the smartest tableware I owned. The black and white tiles in the kitchenette - an angular construction which had been squeezed into the corner between the bedroom and the bathroom - had been mopped. I nodded to myself, satisfied, and peeked into the bedroom. The double bed which took up most of the room was neat, and the closet door shut.

The apartment was tiny and cramped, an exact replica to those of my neighbours and the floor below, down to the net curtains which hung on the three small casement windows. But I supposed for one person there wasn't really much need for more space.

The knock came on the door at the same time as the oven alarm went off, signifying that dinner was ready. Time for my date.

 

 

_Mrs Riordan gathers her neighbours like a mother gathers children, inviting them in by groups as she settles in her armchair by the grandfather clock, sipping at a weak cup of Earl Grey tea and recounting through the wisdom of her years. She tells of mysterious noises and mysterious silences and discusses with deep pity her short encounters. And the neighbours go home to their families, full of distant sympathy, speaking in hushed whispers. And children, tired of the ageing stories of the monster that lives in the laundry room at night, create a new monster in the shape of the Peculiar Man; a game that they can play in the quiet daylight hours when the afternoon sun holds the world still._

 

“There,” I announced proudly, “what do you think?” I stood back a little and watched my fiancé's reaction as he examined the tree.

He lifted a thin, tapering eyebrow. “Acceptable,” he said at last, lips quirking into a smile.

I laughed and swatted him on the shoulder. “Smartass.” I thought the tree looked good, covered in hand-me-down ornaments and a small string of white lights, the dazzling array of it bursting out of the space by the television set.

This was the first time since I had moved in that I would spend Christmas Day in my apartment instead of at my parent's ranch out in Shadow Creek, Oregon, and I had been looking forward to it for months. The oven pinged sharply and I jumped from my position, stretching up to peck Mike quickly on the cheek.

“Cookies are done,” I said.

“More cookies,” he moaned, rubbing at his stomach. “Don't you think you've gone kind of crazy this year?”

I looked around the kitchen at the various sized Tupperware boxes full of Christmas treats which were stacked all over the counters.

“All right, maybe a little,” I admitted and Mike chuckled again, swiping a hand through his short-cropped brown hair.

“Just a little?” he asked as I pulled the latest tray out of the oven and dropped it on the stove top, yanking off the oven gloves. I grabbed at one of the cookies and threw it at him, shaking my hand at the heat that had seared the skin even through that short contact. The cookie hit his chest and he caught it, throwing it from hand to hand until it cooled.

This was also the first Christmas I would be celebrating with my new fiancé, and I wanted it to be special.

Mike swallowed the cookie with a few perfunctory chews and grinned widely at me. “I've gotta go, I'll see you tomorrow.”

“I'll walk you out,” I volunteered, pulling the white bag out of the trash can and tying the top. “I have to take out the trash anyway,” I added, with a wicked grin.

Mike pretended offence for a moment but still took the bag. “I'll obviously have to teach you some manners once we're married.” He shooed me out of the door, smacking my ass with the bag as he came out behind me.

I noticed the cold as soon as I stepped into the unheated hallway and crossed my arms defensively, tunnelling my hands into the thick wool of my oversized burnt-orange sweater. I found myself inspecting Ms Betterman's wreath as we passed her door, checking for the hundredth time that the red tartan bow was still straight. I'd hung it for her the week before and now every time I passed it I couldn't take my eyes off it, as if as soon as I turned my back it would twist itself up and become unpresentable. I managed to wrench my eyes off the greenery with some effort and noticed without much surprise that 4A still didn't have one. He hadn't one for the past five years, so I didn't know why I still expected it. He was such a Grinch. I was surprised he hadn't gone around knocking everyone else's wreaths off of their doors.

I trotted down the stairs, Mike following close behind with the trash bag. It was colder than I ever remembered it being in LA. For the past few weeks the temperature had hovered steady at 50 degrees, creating a chill that seeped steadily into your skin, numbing fingers and toes. I laughed at myself, thinking that I wouldn't have batted an eyelid at weather like this when I lived on my parents' ranch. Obviously so long living in SoCal had turned me into a complete sissy when it came to the cold.

From behind came the sound of a door slamming shut.

I slowed as I reached the foot of the stairs, hesitating before taking some time to pull my hands into my sleeves. Even through the heavy wool I could feel the cold of the glass biting at my hands when I pushed on it.

“Well, excuse me,” Mike muttered sarcastically as I shoved the door open. I turned, one foot out on the sidewalk, to see 4A push past him on the steps, practically elbowing him into the corner out of the way. I stepped fully through the door and held it open for Mike, who gave the blonde guy’s back a dirty look before following me out.

“Well, that was weird,” he commented as soon as the door had swung shut behind us. I glanced back. The guy was twisting the key in his mailbox with unnecessary force.

“Well, that’s 4A.”

“It is?” Mike questioned, throwing him an intrigued look this time. “I was beginning to think he was some kind of mythical creature.”

I snorted. “I wish.”

Mike dropped the trash bag in the dumpster beside the building. “He still keeping you up with that music?”

“Nope. He hasn’t done that for a while. Now he’s thumping.”

“Thumping? Like out of Bambi?”

I twisted my mouth in distaste at Mike’s terrible joke. “No. Just . . . thumping. He’s driving Ms Betterman crazy; she’s convinced she’s hearing things. I’ll have to talk to him again.”

4A was leafing through a pile of correspondence, frownlines visible beneath the curtain of hair.

“Are you gonna be okay with that? He’s a little on the . . . buff side,” Mike observed, nervousness leaking into his voice.

I laughed, hugging myself tight against the cool breeze that cut right through my clothes. “I grew up on a cattle ranch, sweetie. If I can get 1200lbs of angry beef with horns to do what I want, I think I can handle one short guy.”

I kissed Mike again and hurried back inside with a quick wave, getting out of the icy wind. 4A had just flipped through the last of his mail. He looked up, staring at the concrete side of the stairs, chewing uncertainly on his bottom lip. After a moment he set his jaw angrily and promptly dumped half of his letters in the waste basket in the corner, stomping past me without even realising I was there. I listened to his boots clomping up the stairs and glanced back at the waste basket. I knew I shouldn’t look. But the guy was just so weird, and irritating, and anything that might explain to me why he was like that was intriguing enough that I couldn’t let go of the idea.

I pulled out the bundle of letters he had trashed and flicked through them. They weren’t bills, or junk mail, as I had suspected, but personal – his name handwritten on the kaleidoscopic envelopes.

I paused then, unsure. It certainly wasn’t a habit of mine to break into people’s unopened mail. But he had thrown them unceremoniously in the trash. As long as he didn’t change his mind and come back for them, he would never know. Besides, letters came loose in the mail all the time. I winced, recognising a poor argument when I thought one up.

I looked at the first card, the precise cursive handwriting on the front, and gently slid my finger into the gap at the back, teasing the flap open. Inside was a card with a typical Christmas snow scene on the front. When I opened it a photograph slipped out. It showed a blonde lady as well as a man and a teen both with dark hair and wide grins. 4A was in the picture too, sitting in the forefront on the edge of a fireplace, Christmas stockings hanging in the background, and smiling. That was such a shock I had to take a moment to understand it. He seemed the type of man that had built up a lifetime of bitterness, but the photograph seemed to show that wasn’t the case. He’d been happy once.

I moved the photo and underneath, in that same carefully flowing script, under the Happy Christmas message were the words ‘love from Sandy and Kirsten’ which was odd, unless they were those types of liberal hippy parents who insisted their children called them by their first names. Underneath that, in impossibly-neater script, as if the words had been deliberated over for a long time before writing: ‘Please come visit us for Christmas. We miss you, and we worry.’

I stuffed that all back into the envelope and worked open the next one. Another tacky Christmas scene with the added message to ‘Call the Cohens, dude, or I’ll come down and kick your ass. Luke.’ The next few carried pretty much the same message, although with alternative wordings from Anna, Lindsey and Sadie respectively. A few added hugs and kisses and various affectionate epithets. I was unsure where 4A had managed to make all these friends, because I had certainly never seen any of them around since I had moved in.

The final one was in a deep green envelope and was addressed to Mr Kid Chino at the same apartment. Opening the envelope I found a hand-made card with a sketch of a two bearded men on the front, and in between them a much shorter, ferocious-looking man, breaking out of his shirt and tie. I flipped the card open.

“Merry Chris _muck_ uh? What the hell is that?” I scanned down to the bottom. “P.S. Call Mom and Dad. Seriously. They’re really starting to freak out again.”

I was even more confused now than when I had started - other than the obvious fact that 4A’s family, however they were related, were clearly worried about him. And he just threw all the cards in trash without opening them. How many other letters had he done that with? God, Scrooge much?

I dropped the cards back in the waste basket and jogged up the stairs, trying to work some warmth back into my bones. I ignored 4A’s wreathless door at the top of the flight and turned resolutely toward my apartment. I had more cookies to bake. It was Christmas tomorrow.

 

 

_Life continues, the way life always does; a mixture of cold coincidence and hasty words, experience untempered by the flitting knowledge of human fragility. People come and go, come and go, move in and move out. But Mrs Riordan knows them all; watches her neighbours like a guardian angel. She knows when the girl down the hall becomes pregnant, even before her womb begins to blossom visibly. And she knows when the baby goes away on a cold January morning with tears and whispered prayers. She knows when the family in the apartment above have money problems - their tragedies punctuated by the slamming of doors and sullen silences. And Mrs Riordan does what she does best in quiet invitations and unassuming smiles. She coaxes their fears from them._

 

“Goddammit!” I snapped, yanking the car door roughly open again to pull the train of the dress out. I bundled as much of the material as I could into my arms and kicked the door shut. It was a very good thing I'd ordered a wedding dress in material that didn't crease, because with the whole of it balled up in my arms, including the entire puddle train, it wasn't going to be in good condition when I got it up to the apartment.

I stormed to the glass door, sneakers thumping angrily on the ground. To say I was feeling the last-minute bridal stress was an understatement of gargantuan proportions.

So far this week I had found out that the caterers had never recorded my booking, the store I had ordered the cake from had gone out of business and my maid of honour had broken her leg and would be in traction over the wedding. Then, apparently, I couldn't have my dress delivered because everyone from the dress shop had come down with the flu - except for one young girl who was looking pretty green when I got there.

The glass door smacked back into the wall as I stomped up the steps and down the hallway to my door, taking a good deal of paint off as I tried to get my key into the lock. Inside I threw my dress over the back of a chair and dropped onto the sofa to get my breath back. A cushion was digging uncomfortably into my spine so I twisted an arm underneath me to pull it out and tossed it across the room. It hit the floor with a soft thump.

I groaned quietly, rubbing my hands over my face. Five months ago, spending a romantic Christmas in my apartment with my fiancé, this whole wedding thing had seemed like such a good idea. Right now I was sorely tempted to kidnap him and run off to Las Vegas for a weekend.

I toed off my sneakers and stretched out on the sofa, letting the tension and aches seep from my body. What I really needed was a nice long bubble bath. In a minute, when my muscles started functioning again.

There was a soft knock on the door and a small shuffling noise.

I sighed quietly, swinging my legs back round and standing. All aches present and correct.

I opened the door to Ms Betterman, standing there in her quilted peach housecoat and fluffy slippers. She shuffled her feet again and her thinning white curls bobbed at the movement.

“I'm sorry to bother you dear, but could you help me find my medicine? I'm hearing things again.”

“Again?” I stepped out of the door and took her arm. She was frail – her arms felt as if they were pure bone underneath the loose skin. “Ms Betterman you weren't hearing things, it's the young man in the apartment next to you,” I explained loudly as I led her slowly back to her door.

“It is?” she asked, her face a testimony to utter frightened confusion.

“Yes, Ms Betterman. It's nothing to worry about, I'll take care of it for you.”

I suppressed an angry sigh. It was honestly bad enough that Ms Betterman's kids had dumped her in this apartment, confused and alone, when she should have been in a rest home, but for that twit in 4A to keep making her think she was losing her mind . . .

“I'll take care of it,” I repeated, struggling to keep my tone even. “Sit down and watch your shows, okay?”

“Oh,” she said quietly, obviously still upset. “Is it time?

“Yes, Ms Betterman, it's time.” I delivered her into the apartment and shut the door behind her. Then I spun and pounded down the hall – 105lbs of pure fury.

As I neared 4A's door I could hear the thumping – erratic thudded couplets.

I smacked the door, angry because I was getting damn tired of doing this. When 4A opened it half a minute later he wore a matching expression of weary frustration. He let out a breath.

“What'd I do now?” he demanded in an almost-whisper.

Once again I was struck by the dichotomy of the guy. I couldn't understand how someone so quietly spoken could be so consistently obnoxious in action.

“Quit with the thumping,” I told him, “you're driving Ms Betterman crazy. Literally.”

4A licked his bottom lip, considering. “It's my apartment, can't I do what I want?” He shrugged, eyes suddenly angry as they fixed on me. “What do you expect me to do – sit in the middle of the floor and not move?”

“Well, that's a start,” I replied.

His eyes flashed.

_Fuck you._

I knew he was thinking it, and that was strangely gratifying because it was the most dynamic I'd seen him since I'd moved in.

“What the hell is it that you're doing anyway?” I took a moment to peer round him in the doorway, searching out a possible explanation for the noise. His living room was set out pretty much the same as mine, except that where I had my television he had a punching bag dangling from a large metal frame. “Is that even allowed?”

“Well, it's not a pet, is it?”

When he shut the door in my face I was simply surprised that he hadn't done so earlier. But I guessed even Mr Grumpy needed a little conversation sometimes. He went out occasionally, I'd noticed, always dressed up in the same black suit and tie, carrying a briefcase. I assumed therefore that he had a job of some sort, but I'd never seen him speak to anyone. Other than me, anyway. And if that was the best he could do for conversation he was in a poor state. But then I figured if he was lonely he had no-one to blame but himself. He wasn't exactly friendly and approachable.

I shook my head and started to leave, only to stop in my tracks when his music started, blaring through the thin walls.

“Oh no. Not today.”

I turned again, jaw set, ready for a fight, and there was someone already knocking on his door. The lady seemed vaguely familiar, possibly a new neighbour I hadn't noticed properly before. She was at least twice my age, with grey hair working into the blonde. She knocked again, hesitantly, as I watched. The door didn't open.

“You must be new around here,” I offered, and she turned to me blinking stupidly as if she hadn't seen me approach. “You have to knock a little louder, the guy's practically deaf from listening to this crap full blast.” I pounded on the door again. “Hey asshole, did I not just ask you to shut the hell up? Don't make me come in there and kick your ass. I have had a bad week.”

The door flew open at that and I swallowed hard at the rage in his eyes as he faced me down.

“Bad week?” he repeated, bitterness choking his voice.

_I've had a bad decade_ , his eyes pronounced.

“Ryan?” the lady beside me gasped and he flicked his head toward her. He looked pained for a moment and then he went blank again. His eyes dropped, refusing contact. I noticed his hand on the doorframe tightening until it went white, except for the bruising around the knuckles. I frowned. Why wouldn't he wear gloves when he used the punching bag? Or had he been getting into fights now too?

“Why are you here?” he asked the lady, his voice weak with a vulnerability that I wouldn't have thought him capable of.

“Ryan,” she breathed again. There was concern and sorrow there, with a depth that struck me like a knife.

Both of them seemed to have forgotten I was there. I looked at the blonde again and the familiarity became recognition. Less the wrinkles and grey hairs, she was a match to the distinguished woman in that Christmas photo.

“Can I come in?” she asked. “Please?”

4A stood there in indecision, hands so tight on the door and the frame I was sure he would leave dents. I felt like an intruder somehow, observing a silent conversation and emotional undercurrent that I shouldn't have been privy to. But I couldn't move without alerting them to my presence again, and interrupting them like that seemed just as much of a crime, so I stayed still.

“It's been twelve years, Ryan,” the blonde pleaded. I didn't understand the comment, but I understood when 4A's face shuttered and he stiffened that he was about to slam the door in her face.

There was a moment of distressed silence after he did so that I didn't dare to break, until the music cut in again - louder than before - and I knew that no amount of knocking would get him to open the door this time. That last look he had given the woman had carried a finality that I couldn't comprehend. I turned to talk to the blonde – offer her a cup of coffee or something, anything – but she was already heading down the stairs, a cellphone to her ear, leaving me standing alone in front of his door.

 

 

_Mrs Riordan answers no questions about herself or the things she does. 'It is a task suited to someone much better,' is all she says. But she is the heart of the building. It breathes and moulds around her – a community she has constructed from strays and loners. The unaccepted and the unacceptable. She quotes poetry sometimes, epic verses of long-distant rhyme and meter. She recites Elliott and Larkin like a professional orator, exact and unhurried. Meaning and passion flow from her lips. She speaks and waits for the words to transform her world._

 

When the brown-haired man slammed 4A up against the brick wall of the alley, I almost called 911. As much as I didn't like the guy, I wasn't about to just watch him get mugged. But 4A didn't look scared, just angry and deeply upset – the only emotions he ever seemed to display on the few occasions where his blank mask failed him.

“What the hell is your problem, Ry?” the brown-haired man spat, letting go again and stepping back, hands still clenching as though he wanted to hit the younger man. That was certainly a sentiment I could understand. I pushed my cellphone back into my purse and settled back into the car seat. I was across the street and they weren't looking in my direction, but in the early August warmth I needed the car windows down and their conversation carried on the soft breeze.

I was waiting for my husband to drop the last box in our new two-bedroom apartment - a floor above my old one - and then we were going out for a celebratory meal.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” The brown-haired man was still yelling and 4A was steadily ignoring him, hard up against the brickwork where he had been pushed. He had dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans and was studying the ground with some interest.

“I can't, Trey.”

“You can't? What kind of fucking answer is that? You can't.” Trey threw his hands up in the air and paced toward the entrance of the alley, then spun back on himself. Where 4A was stilled motion, this Trey guy was all chaotic energy. “You know when Pops told me what you said I couldn't believe it. I had to come down here and find out for myself. But for once he was telling the truth, wasn't he, bro?”

Bro? Now that was interesting, because that guy wasn't the same dark-haired kid that I had seen in 4A's family Christmas photo last year. Which just went to prove that the more I found out about the guy, the less I knew.

“Fuck,” Trey breathed, leaning back against he opposite wall and lighting a cigarette. “I ain't ever gonna understand you. You know, I'll be the first to admit that Mom was nothing but a damn train wreck--”

“So why are you here?” 4A asked, lifting his gaze to fix his apparent brother with a searching look. “You told me once that you'd only go to her funeral to spit on her grave, same as Dad's.”

“Yeah, well I grew up,” Trey answered, flicking the ash off his cigarette. “So she was fucked up. We all are. It's not like you have to cry or anything, but you could at least show up, Ryan.”

4A swallowed and laid his head back against the wall, unconsciously mirroring the other man's pose. “If you had a memorial service, like in the church or something . . .” he said, wavering, “but the cemetery . . . watching them put her in the ground . . .” He fumbled over his words and came to a halting stop. “I can't.”

Now I found myself asking the same question the brunette had asked not long before: what the hell was wrong with this guy that he couldn't go to his own mother's funeral? From what I'd seen of the lady she seemed nice enough. She'd come to his apartment not even a month ago and he'd slammed the door in her face, and now he wouldn't go to the funeral. Well, shit.

Trey laughed angrily, pushing himself away from the wall again. “Love you like a brother, brother, but you're a man now, you should fucking act like it.”

“What the hell would you know?” 4A said in a dangerously low voice. The brunette stopped and turned back to him. The cigarette still dangled from his hand. “You always took off. You fucking left me there with her, Trey, over and over again.” He was shouting now too, face contorted. “I learned damn fast how to act like a man.”

“Don't fucking start, Ry. Do you even remember when Dad was still around?”

“Yeah, and that makes up for everything, doesn't it?” The last was low again, and they stood there glaring at each other. The 4A took a deep breath and turned his head away. “I killed her, Trey.”

He killed her? Without thinking about it I started pulling my cellphone from my purse again. He hadn't meant that literally, had he? Because that would be creepy even for him, and 4A was already the creepiest guy I had ever met. I was suddenly wishing that I hadn't heard any of this, because now not only was it not making sense, it was kind of scaring me, especially when I thought of all the times I had confronted 4A by myself.

The brunette shook his head, his spiky hair almost falling over his eyes now, the hold from any hair gel losing to the heat. “Shit, bro. That's what this is about? That fucking bitch?”

A second later Trey was up against the wall and 4A was hissing into his ear. I couldn't hear any of it, but I was glad for that because the guy looked beyond enraged. I averted my gaze as he let go again. In the side mirror I could see him crossing the street without looking and practically smashing through the glass door into the apartment building. His brother, meanwhile, was slumped against the wall. He looked frightened and nervous, lighting another cigarette and puffing at it impassively.

I drew a relieved breath when Mike appeared, smiling, to hop into the driver's seat of the car, and could only send up a quick prayer of thanks that he hadn't met 4A on the stairwell.

 

 

_Eventually the gossip fades – a victim of the passing years. Details are no longer avidly discussed in the hallways, memories disappear with time as interest wanes. Children no longer play games in the dreary stairwells when it rains, escaping boredom with melodramatic tales weaned from gruesome bedtime stories and whispered fact. Myth springs from truth, they learn, but too often they forget the truth in favour of the myth. 'Sensationalism is an American trade', Mrs Riordan says. She understands this; that things which should be most important are not often held so._

 

I looked at my watch for the third time as I threw everything I needed in my purse. I was still ten minutes late. The morning sickness had finally dropped off over the last month as I entered the second trimester, but what with the aches and the shortness of breath I sometimes found it difficult to get myself going when I needed to be somewhere. Today wasn't just somewhere, though. Today was the ultrasound. Mike was meeting me at the hospital and I was going to be late, even without counting in LA's typical Saturday traffic nightmare.

When I finally had everything I needed, and after going back for my car keys only twice, I managed to get to the stairs. I'd had terrible back pain throughout the pregnancy so far, so I took my time waddling awkwardly down the steps, wishing again that someone had thought to put an elevator in when they had designed the building. I was thirty-five, so it was a little bit of a late pregnancy, and I couldn't be hiking up and down flights of stairs in my condition. The architect should have seen this coming, I grumbled to myself as I reached the bottom of the first flight.

It smelled strange on the second floor – a mild odour of gas, but I had been over-sensitive to smells for months now. I took a little time to walk up and down the hallway and the smell came and went, slightly stronger around 4A's door. Of course. I looked at my watch again. Now I was fifteen minutes late, and for once I just didn't want to think about getting into a confrontation with the hermit in that apartment. I decided to call the gas company and let them battle it out with him, if there was even a problem. I got my cellphone out and called it in as I walked down the final flight and went out to my car. If they hadn't checked it out by the time I came back I'd talk to 4A myself then, but I didn't have time to stop.

After an hour of battling traffic I finally arrived at the hospital, practically throwing the car into a parking space and walking as fast as I could to the reception for the prenatal clinic. Mike was already there waiting for me.

“You're late,” was the first thing he said to me, getting up out of his seat and kissing my forehead.

“I know. Damn traffic. Did they mind?”

He smiled at me, a gooey look he'd been giving me ever since I broke the news to him; that after three years of marriage and two years of trying, I had finally conceived. “Not yet, they're running late too, which actually means you're about on time.”

I sat down in his vacated chair – an uncomfortable plastic thing that forced me to sit up straight around my bump. “I could go for a salad right about now,” I told him, suddenly feeling the urge for food. “One of those crispy chicken ones from KFC, with that mustard,” I explained, miming squishing the condiment out of the plastic wrapper.

Mike rolled his eyes at me. “Maybe after.”

A nurse walked into the room purposefully, reading information off a chart that she held in her hand before glancing around at the small waiting room.

“Nah, I won't want it any more by then,” I told Mike. And I would probably have to talk to 4A after anyway, I remembered. “Did you smell gas this morning when you left?” I asked, surprising Mike with the question. He straightened in his seat next to me and gave me a confused look.

“No, why?”

The nurse called my name then and we went into the examining room. I grabbed Mike's hand hard and squeezed it, excited. We'd been for two ultrasounds already, but I loved seeing how the baby was developing.

A few minutes later I was lying on the hospital bed with the radiologist running the transducer over my bump.

“I smelled gas,” I said, drawing a strange look from Mike, while the radiologist studiously ignored the comment. “This morning,” I clarified quickly, “when I left the apartment. I called it in. I just wondered if you had too.”

Mike shook his head, still staring at the screen that the radiologist was studying. Personally I couldn't decipher any of it – the greyscale static didn't present any shape that I could recognise.

“Are you sure you actually smelled something?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Coz remember last week--”

I raised my head. “I was thinking about bacon, okay. Is that a crime? I wasn't thinking about gas this morning, I can assure you, and I still smelled it.”

“Well, if you called it in, they'll take care of it, so you don't need to worry. Just relax.”

“Sure, yeah.” I flashed him a quick smile and laid back again, waiting for the radiologist to finish her job.

Half an hour later I was sat in the front seat of my Toyota Jeep with a box of chicken salad from the KFC and the images that the doctor had given me from the ultrasound. Mike laughed at me when I squeezed three sachets of mustard on top of the lettuce and mixed it all in with the plastic fork.

“What?” I asked, fork hovering as I waited, pretending indignance

Mike shook his head, still chuckling. “Nothing. I'm just glad you're not craving kippers and jelly or something crazy like that.”

I made a face, then considered it. “Well, maybe if it's boisenberry,” I capitulated, holding the thoughtful expression until Mike screwed up his face in disgust and pretended to retch out of the window. I kicked at him playfully and ate my salad. He left soon after to get back to work and I drove home, glad of the time out of the apartment, but in need of a short nap to re-energise.

I parked my car on the street outside the building, behind a white minivan. I locked the Jeep up and started towards the entrance of the building, glancing at the writing on the side of the van as I passed almost on reflex. It was the word 'coroner' that made me stop cold.

“Shit,” I breathed, hardly thinking about adding more money to the swear jar, or wondering, as I usually did, whether or not the word would affect my unborn baby in some way. All I could think of was Ms Betterman, and how poor her lungs had been this last month after the nasty bout of pneumonia over the winter. I jogged as fast as I could into the building and up the first flight of stairs, catching the policeman at the top by the sleeve.

“Where is she, is she okay?” I looked around and spotted a second policeman in the doorway to 4A's apartment. “What did he do?” The information I had made no sense. All I could think of was that 4A had gone crazy and hurt Ms Betterman somehow, or attacked the men from the gas company? Had he killed one of them? Had I lived in a building with a murderer all this time? “What's going on?”

“Ma'am, you're going to have to calm down,” the policeman said, pulling his arm out of my grip and placing his hand on his hip near the butt of his gun. “Do you live here?”

“Yes, what's going on? Is everyone okay?”

I scanned the hallway again and this time I noticed the faces protruding from doors further down. An unnatural hush had settled over the building.

“I'm afraid I can't give you any information right now, ma'am. If you could just go on to your apartment, we'll get this sorted out as quickly as possible.”

I nodded vaguely now, caught up in my renewed inspection of 4A's door, which was still ajar. The second policeman had moved inside it, but I could hear what he was saying.

“It's fairly obvious what we're dealing with.” The voice was deep and slow. “A will was in an envelope right next to the body, all the electrical equipment had been unplugged, towels were stuffed under the doors – it was a job to get in here.”

I pushed past the policeman, pointing up the stairs, but I couldn't make my legs move very quickly, and when I looked through the doorway and saw the scratched boots on the floor and the hem of 4A's jeans, everything froze.

“No note,” the policeman's voice rolled in, “but there's no evidence of anyone else being in here. Looks like he just turned on the gas and went to sleep . . . all the windows closed.”

“I guess he didn't want to wake up,” the coroner said. I saw his lips moving to the words, but the sound still seemed to come from outside of him.

“He was a heavy smoker – that probably contributed. He knew what he was doing.”

“Oh my God.”

“Ma'am? Ma'am?”

I blinked and looked up. “He killed himself?” I couldn't process that information. It just couldn't be right.

“Were you a friend of Mr Atwood's, ma'am?”

I had walked right past his door, while he had been killing himself. I had walked right past. “No,” I choked out, forcing back tears. “Just a neighbour. I lived upstairs from him.”

“If you can get the poor guy out of here, we can clear up,” the policeman in the apartment was telling the coroner.

“How old was he?” the coroner asked. He was unpacking a black bag.

The policeman leafed through a wallet, stopping probably at the ID. “Thirty-three,” he answered, shaking his head. “It never ceases to amaze me how quickly some people get tired of life.”

“Why don't you go on to your apartment, ma'am?”

I transferred my gaze back to the police officer in front of me.

“He has a brother somewhere,” I blurted and the man nodded.

“He should be notified soon, Miss . . .”

“Mrs,” I corrected, hearing the coroner close the body bag. The noise was harsh, and so final, like the slamming of an apartment door three years ago. I swallowed. Three years, another seven before that. Ten years and I had just walked past. Every day, I had just walked past. “Mrs Riordan.”

 

_It is too easy to be blind,' Mrs Riordan says. People nod solemnly, sip their drinks. But the games they played when young are already forgotten, along with the existential honesty that only children have. Now their lives are filled with schedules and responsibility. They no longer understand the importance of the difference between myth and reality. So every year Mrs Riordan gathers them together and tells them about the Peculiar Man, because the rootless and unwanted should not be forgotten, and the lessons they teach are the hardest to learn._


End file.
